Tonight's Poet Corner: Markovsky White
Markovsky White by Belinda Roddie Markovsky White regularly poured a night terror into his coffee, a shaky substitute for cream stirred straight from the can. He sipped from the brim of his anxiety attack and tilted his two-cornered head back, bumping the brick wall of his brick mausoleum, caught weary and gray in the spare window dusklight. Mister White was an extravagant sick man - a fool with more medicine than money - a plaid-patterned epileptic episode on a trademarked green sofa bed. He dreamed about love number seven on the mental queue, ate nothing but barbecued temper tantrums, and wished for a day in which he'd replace the one AM chills with frosted toast to nibble on when the sun thawed out the blood clot in his bottom left brain.